


Her Sacred Blade

by Windian



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Gen, Shepherd!Alisha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 20:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: Princesses aren’t made for things like this. But you’ve always wielded a burden heavier than yourself: the weight of your lineage, expectations, the heavy steel of your spear.





	Her Sacred Blade

A woman sleeps on the dias where the sacred blade rests inside its stone. No one else can see her, which caused no small amount of consternation when you were smaller.

You’re daydreaming, Alisha, darling, your mother would say, tugging you away by the hand.

But there _is_ a woman there, with hair spun from starlight and eyelashes that flutter, sometimes, as she dreams her days away. 

Others are less kind than your mother: Alisha’s _cracked_ , she thinks the Lady of the Lake is real!

Nails bite crescent shaped scars into your palms. You are a fool, perhaps, to believe in fairy tales, to believe in seraphim and shepherds, heroes who could steal you away from your own dreary life. Ribbons in your hair, smiling, polite, at parties. Those are the things princesses are made for, even bastard half-princesses. No future other than to put put away on a high shelf. Smile, darling. Look pretty.

But just because others cannot see something, does not mean it isn’t _real._

Lady Maltran works through her routine in the yard, and you wonder. She’s swiftness, fierceness, beauty, and something in her steals away the breath from out of your chest. You imagine yourself in her place, movement inside of stillness, life instead of lifelessness, weapon in your hands.

I always see you here, Princess Alisha. Are you interested in the art of the spear?

Princesses aren’t made for things like this.

You smile. Downcast your eyes. Clasped hands. My mother wouldn’t allow it, you tell her.

Still, you can’t help but peek up from your the curtains of your fringe as Maltran leans her weight up against her spear, the glitter in her eyes sparking something in your heart, fire off against a flint.

Let me speak to your mother, Princess.

The Lady of the Lake still sleeps. You wonder if she’ll ever wake. The Rite of the Shepherd has not been performed for years.

The very last time, when you were young, you swear you could see her _peeking_ one sly eye open.

Perhaps, just your imagination.

Holding the festival once more will raise the spirits of the people. But secretly, you hope for something more: for a Shepherd to be found, to guide the people of this land once again.

But none can lift the sacred blade from the stone in which it sleeps. Resounding against the hard marble walls of the chapel is the mockery of your peers, vicious whispers that raise stinging tears to your eyes.

Please don’t cry, Alisha.

The Lady of the Lake’s eyes are open, as blue and wide as the rivers and lakes of Hyland. She sits upright on the dias. You have to be dreaming.

You know who I am? You ask.

Of course. You’ve watched over me so well, all these years.

The Lady’s smile deepens into dimples. You colour, and she laughs into a curled hand.

You’re so cute, Alisha.

You never imagined the Lady of the Lake would be like _this_.

She inclines her head. Are you going to draw the sacred blade, Alisha?

_Me?_

Yes, you. Although I must warn you first, about the burden it bears.

Princesses aren’t made for things like this. But you’ve always wielded a burden heavier than yourself: the weight of your lineage, expectations, the heavy steel of your spear.

It becomes the easiest thing in the world. The whispers in the chapel crescendo into stunned silence, as you place your hands on the handle of the sacred blade, and with the breathy rasp of steel, pull it free from the stone.


End file.
